


Glazed and Confused

by wishingonalightningbolt



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Human, M/M, federal agent!Derek, lab rat!Stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-14
Updated: 2013-04-14
Packaged: 2017-12-08 12:20:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/761252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wishingonalightningbolt/pseuds/wishingonalightningbolt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>or, In Which Love is More Important than Donuts.</p>
<p>Stiles is a forensic tech with the San Diego FBI. He thinks he's been fairly lucky, since he's never had his life threatened, sustained few injuries, and only has to work with his least favorite agent every once in a while.</p>
<p>And then all of that changes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Glazed and Confused

**Author's Note:**

> I worked on this monster for a long time and am very glad to see that it is finally complete.
> 
> Please be warned that although the violence is not graphic, there are a few instances in which guns are pulled and people get hurt.
> 
> Thanks and enjoy!

Stiles loves his job.

He’s heard it said that people who hated math and science in high school actually thrive in those subjects later on in life—he would think that it’s bullshit, except sometimes it turns out to be true.

Yes, Stiles hated Harris’ particular brand of torture (read: Chemistry class) and was often jealous of his classmates’ ability to quickly grasp mathematical concepts that took him days of studying and question-asking to really comprehend, but that didn’t mean that he wasn’t actually talented in those classes.  He just disliked them.

It’s not a total surprise when Stiles finds himself in an internship for the LA police department’s forensic lab right out of college.  He goes to grad school, spends six years trying to coax a doctorate out of his department, and by the time he’s the second-in-command of the FBI’s crime lab located in San Diego, he’s only 32.  By his estimation, that’s not a bad set up.

Of course, the commander in chief is Ms. Lydia Martin, a stunning strawberry blonde with burning wit and an icy exterior.  She’s quite amusing, though, and ridiculously intelligent, and Stiles is kind of in love with her for a little while.  There are a few other people in the lab who Stiles is quite taken with as well.  Isaac Lahey is a slender, but muscled, man with adorable curls and a smile that makes Stiles feel all squishy inside.  His best friend in the lab, Scott, works ballistics.  He’s goofy and manages to trip a lot, even though he thankfully has never managed to shoot anyone while he’s working.  Danny is their hacker guy, computer forensics.  He would normally be underground in the cyber unit, but he’s helped so much with so many cases that the director got him moved into the lab, a nice white coat and everything.  He’s devilishly handsome and kind to a fault; and it’s not fair, Stiles thinks, that he’s always surrounded by attractive people everywhere he goes—his life is not MTV.

Everyone he knows is clever.  They’re all intelligent and professional and hilarious, and Stiles loves his job.

He doesn’t so much love the FBI agents he has to work with.  To a point, he supposes, they’re all decent people, but…

Well, Erica Reyes is practically a supermodel.  She knows it, too, so she’s not really shy.  Stiles doesn’t hate her so much as maintain equal parts fear and respect towards her.  And attraction. She’s good at her job at least.  Then there’s her partner, Vernon Boyd.  Everyone just calls him Boyd.  He’s a hulking black guy who looks really good in a suit and is just as known for his winning smile as for his snarly glare.

They’re nice, sometimes, Stiles knows.  But it’s not so much them as their boss.

Derek Hale.  Angels fucking weep when he so much as blinks at them.  He is literally the perfect specimen—tall, dark, handsome, an ass to die for, and a mouth to kill for.  His eyes are gorgeous, his hair is always flawless, he looks like James Bond in a suit, and he has a permanent five o’clock shadow that has been known to make knees go weak.

And, most importantly, he is a giant douchebag.  He never asks, simply orders; he glares and huffs and doesn’t smile unless he’s trying to manipulate someone.  He’s maybe just as much of a workaholic as Stiles is, because if Stiles ever has to walk through the squad room to get down to the lab—sometimes the back elevator that will take him all the way down is packed so he has to make two separate trips—he’s there in the early morning with breakfast, he’s been known to walk into the lab with his lunch in his hands, and sometimes, when Stiles leaves, he’s sitting at his desk, in near darkness, with dinner.

Stiles thinks he might be lonely.  But it’s no excuse for his attitude.

Stiles isn’t an idiot.  He knows that the agents don’t really respect the lab rats.  But Derek’s disrespect…irks him.  At least until he’s 33 and Derek Hale is waltzing into the lab with his hands stuck in his trouser pockets and his face a cool mask of dismissal.

“Danny,” is the only thing he says.

It’s still early, so Stiles and Scott are the only ones in for now—official work day won’t start for another half hour.  Lydia’s out getting them coffee.

“Not in yet,” Stiles says, only glancing up for a second before going back to his crossword puzzle.  “His station’s in the back, to the left.  You can leave him a note on his desk, if you like.”

“I was wondering if he had decrypted something I sent him last night.”

Stiles shrugs, penning in an answer.  “He’ll be in within the next half hour.  You can wait by his desk or you can shoot him an email—but I’m not his caretaker.  If he’s working on a case with you, I’m not privy to his progress.”

Derek is silent, and when Stiles looks up again, the man is watching him with a quirked eyebrow.

Stiles mimics the facial expression.  “What?”

“You’re Stilinski.”

“That’s what it says on my coat.”

“How’s the arm?”

Stiles blinks, sits up straight.

About a week ago, there had been an incident in the lab.  He’d been injured.  It wasn’t really a big deal, it was a careless mistake that no one planned on repeating, but he’d worn a bandage for a while and his arm stung like hell.

“Uh, good.  Thanks.”

Derek nods.  “Erica told me about the burn.”

He shrugs.  “Occupational hazard.”

“She also said you were working on the murder weapon when it happened.”

“Like I said.  Occupation—”

“You solved the case.”

Stiles is thrown.  Again.  Because not only does Derek Hale not associate with lab rats, he doesn’t say more than ten words to them usually—unless he’s asking questions—and he _definitely_ doesn’t hand out credit to them.

“Um, thanks?  It’s kind of my job, dude.”

It’s Derek’s turn to shrug.  “Not supposed to get yourself injured in the process.”

Stiles heats up a bit at that—it wasn’t really his fault, and he had been the one to figure out that the chemical involved had been used as slow poison, hidden in weekly meals—but before he can say anything, Danny comes striding in, texting away.

“Hey,” he greets Derek, barely looking up from his phone.  “You here about the file?”

Derek stands up a little straighter and nods.

“Cool.”  He jerks his head towards the back of the lab.  “Come on back and I’ll see if I can talk you through it.”  That’s all he says to Derek before strolling up to Stiles and stealing a donut from the box next to him.

“You’re welcome!” Stiles calls after him.

Some people.

 

* * *

 

 

“What’s the substance on the victim’s coat?”

Stiles looks up from the microscope to find Derek leaning over him, eyes on the computer.  The image under the scope is showing up on the screen, different hues of green all mashed together.

Stiles clears his throat.  “The stuff they put in Henna tattoos.”

Derek frowns.  “She doesn’t have any tattoos.  And she was employed at a nursing home.”

“I don’t do the leg work, dude, I just examine the evidence.”

Derek looks at him again—second time in two weeks, jeez—and tilts his head.  “Why is there a piece of tape over your badge?”

Stiles grabs for the badge that’s clipped to his coat pocket, stuffing it unceremoniously into the deeper pocket by his waist.  It’s a piece of thin, black electrical tape that covers his first name.  He hadn’t been able to get the bureau to put “Stiles” on there in place of it—they wanted his legal name.  So he’d done his own repair to the monstrosity.  “Do you want Scott to go through the GSW stuff with you or what?”

“McCall emailed me a lab report earlier,” Derek says dryly.  “Three shots.  One to the sternum, one to the shoulder, and one to the forehead.  Two to injure, one to kill.”

Stiles shudders.  “Yeah, Lydia and Scott are really the ones who are cool with the whole dead guy stuff—I just look at chemicals.”

Derek seems to accept that, so he asks, “What about the dirt we found on her clothes?  Dr. Martin told me there were two kinds, so I figure that means she was killed one place and buried another.”

Pointing lazily, Stiles goes back to his microscope.  “Isaac does dirt and bugs.  If he has anything for you, he can tell you.”

When Stiles looks up again a moment later, Derek’s gone.

Stiles rolls his eyes.

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles thinks they need a shiny button in the lab for when they figure stuff out.  As soon as they discover something, they can punch it, balloons can fall from the ceiling, and they can celebrate.  Alcohol should also be involved.

But at 11 o’clock at night, when the lab is nearly empty, that’s not really the best time to be jumping up and down.

Lydia is the only one who ever ventures out into the squad room.  She’s the only one who enters that territory to tell the agents the who, what, why, where, and how.  But the only people in the lab right now are Stiles and Danny.

“I need a favor.”

Danny doesn’t look up from where he’s typing.  He simply grunts.

“I don’t know if you heard—”

“A minute ago when you shouted ‘FIGURED IT OUT’ at the top of your lungs?” Danny asks.  “Yeah, I heard it.”

“Right, well, I figured something out and I need you to the take the file up to Agent Hale.”

Danny stops typing.  “Excuse me?”

“C’mon, you know he’s still here.  He’s always here, especially when it’s a case like this.”

A dead woman, buried alive.  And she was pregnant.  Stiles can say all he wants about Derek—he takes shit like this personally.  And if Stiles were a bigger person, he wouldn’t understand why.  But because background searches are in the archives and Stiles has a pass and an in with the cyber unit, Stiles knows that his parents were murdered when he was a teenager.  Along with his little sister.

Danny gives him a patented glare.  “I’m not the one who figured out whatever the hell you figured out—”

“Oh, she had that plastic thing stuck in her leg and I found out that it’s a piece of a license plate sticker that we could potentially—”

“Stiles.”

Stiles closes his mouth.

“You go tell him.  I know you’re terrified of him,” Danny says teasingly, a smirk coming to his face, “but Lydia’s not here to do your dirty work.  So you go do it.”

“…do I have to?”

“You want to send him an email instead?  He might skin you alive for not getting the info to him faster than that.”

Stiles pouts.  “I’ll buy you lunch for a week.”

“I already got Scott doing that.  He lost a bet.”

“C’mon, pleeeeeease?”

Danny doesn’t speak.  Instead, he shuts down his computer, picks up his briefcase, and starts heading towards the door.  “G’night, Stiles.  Say hello to Hale for me.”

Usually at this time of night, the only person in the squad room is Derek.  But tonight, he’s accompanied by Erica and Boyd.

Derek looks up when he enters their little arena, stopping by the desk in the corner that he assumes must be Erica’s.  Her purse is sticking out from under it and there’s a tissue with lipstick on it that’s dangling halfway out of the trashcan.

“Something for us, Dr. Stilinski?” Erica drawls.  She looks tired.  Her curly hair is up in a messy bun, her shoes are off and next to the desk, and her shirt is almost all the way unbuttoned, revealing her tank top underneath.  Her arms are folded across her chest, but her hands are holding her elbows instead of tucking inside, closer to her chest.  She’s not upset.  She’s resigned.  She appears to have given up.

Boyd, on the other hand, is standing a little ways behind her.  His jacket is off, his shirt is no longer tucked into his pants, and he’s still wearing his shoes, but his hands are in his pockets, and he’s glaring at the screen in front of them like it holds the answer to the universe.

Derek is sitting at the desk across from Erica’s.  He’s lounging in the chair, papers strewn across his desk.  His tie is loosened.  His hair looks like he’s tugged his hands through it a few too many times.  And he has leftover Chinese food containers on his desk, like he tried to eat dinner but couldn’t stomach his way through it.

“The thing stuck in her calf,” Stiles starts.  “It’s a license plate sticker.”

It’s quiet.

“She was hit by a car,” Derek says.

“Would account for the head injury,” Boyd offers, nodding.  “Could be how the killer got her from her office to the place of burial.”

Derek looks up at Stiles with tired, red eyes.  “Can you trace the plate it belonged to?”

Stiles grimaces.  “Uh, maybe.  It’s kind of complicated.”

“What do you need?”

“Time?  And access to DMV records. And even then, I can’t promise anything.”

Derek nods.  “Danny’s computer has a database.”

Stiles is aware.  He steps forward, though, and holds out the file.  “All other evidence complied over the last twenty-four hours, just in case you wanted to take another look at it all in one place.”

Derek takes it.  “Thanks.”

“Sure.”  Stiles turns to go, then, but Derek’s voice stops him.

“You’re not going back to the lab, are you?” he asks, and he actually sounds surprised.

Stiles shrugs.  “It’s not like I have anything better to do.”

“Go home.”  Derek stands up, switching off his desk light.  Erica and Boyd look at him like he’s an alien.  “You two should also.  It’s late—we can’t do anything with our heads not in it.”  He takes the file Stiles had brought him and sticks in a drawer, locking it.  When he stands up straight again, he jerks his head towards the elevator bay.  “Go.”

So Erica and Boyd do, and Stiles only lingers a moment before walking back the opposite way, towards the elevators that go down to the lab and autopsy.

He’s busy trying not to freak out about the extraterrestrial that has inhabited Derek Hale’s body when said body slides into the elevator with him just before the doors close.

Stiles blinks at him.  “This elevator doesn’t go to the parking structure.”

Derek nods.  “I know.”

“…okay.”

“I’m making sure you don’t go back to work,” Derek says gruffly, staring with determination at the elevator doors.  “Get your stuff, I’ll drive you home.”

He normally commutes with Scott since they live close to each other, but on nights when Stiles stays late, he finds other sources of transportations.  He wonders how Derek knows this.  “I’ll call a cab.”

“It’s nearly midnight.”

“Yeah, thanks, _Dad_ ,” Stiles says with as much of a bite as he can muster through a yawn that comes out of nowhere.  “Cabs work all hours.”

“I mean it’s not safe.”

Stiles shrugs.  “It’s not like it’s New York.  We’re in San Diego—you think my cab driver’s gonna try to rob me?”  The elevator stops and Stiles hurries out, hanging up his coat and going through the space to turn things off.  It only takes him a few minutes and when he heads back towards with the door with his regular jacket on and his backpack hooked over his shoulder, Derek is leading against the wall, staring at the evidence table in the center of the lab.

There are a million different tox screens, most notably the one that informed them in the first place that the victim had been pregnant.

Stiles clears his throat.  “Okay,” he says, and Derek looks up at him.  “I’d appreciate a ride home.”

He isn’t surprised to find out that Derek drives a sleek, black Camaro.  He _is_ surprised to find out that as soon as he starts to give Derek directions to his place, Derek stops him.

“I know where it is.”

Stiles frowns.  “That’s not creepy at all.”

“My sister lives in your building.  I saw your name on the buzzers when I was visiting her.”  He gives Stiles a side glance.  “What’s your first name, anyway?  I know people call you Stiles, but—”

“That’s just my name.  My, uh, legal name is a bit of a mouthful.  So people call me Stiles.”

Derek seems to accept that for an answer, and he’s silent until they pull up outside Stiles’ building.  Stiles thanks him, Derek gives a meager wave, and then Stiles walks into the lobby and makes a note of looking for a Hale on the buzzers.

He finds a Laura.

It makes him feel slightly accomplished.

 

* * *

 

 

When they solve the case, Derek is the only one who doesn’t look ecstatic.  But that’s probably because he has to the shoot the bad guy.

“I’m always relieved when the bad guy ends up dead instead of in jail,” Lydia says as she slides Stiles a shot.  Possibly the only good thing about this bar is that they give law enforcement personal free whiskey.  “To dead murderers and a night of rest before another dead body turns up.”

Stiles tips his glass against hers and they throw them back together, wincing.

“Hey, guys,” Scott interrupts then, appearing out of nowhere with a raven-haired beauty on his arm and a lipstick smudge on his lower lip.  “Celebrating?”

“Is there any other way to end a case?” Lydia asks.  But then she checks her watch and slides off the barstool, kissing Stiles’ cheek.  “I’ll see you bright and early tomorrow—Jackson’s probably waiting up.”

Stiles forces a grin onto his face.  “Say hello to the boyfriend from hell for me.”

She flips him off as she leaves.

Scott’s friend turns out to be a new analyst, Allison.  Stiles pretends like he has no idea who she is, for his friend’s sake of course, because she’s all he’s been able to talk about for weeks.  When they leave together a little while later, Stiles is happy for Scott.

He has another shot, then another, and when he’s feeling warm and a little looser, he goes home, jerks off in the shower, and goes to sleep.  Because that’s apparently as exciting as his life gets.

But in the morning, that ache is still there.  It’s an uncomfortable burning sensation that tightens his chest, and it’s been there since he saw the look on Derek’s face as he filled out paperwork, spattered blood still on his formerly-pristine white shirt.

When Stiles goes in the next morning, he takes the long way so that he’s forced to walk by the squad room.

Derek is the only one there.

He’s sitting at his desk, reading the newspaper, coffee in hand.  And apparently Stiles lingers a little too long, because he looks up.

Stiles flushes red and manages to stutter out an apology before heading towards the other elevator bank that will take him down to the lab.  If Derek responds, Stiles doesn’t hear it.

 

* * *

 

 

He’s not interested in Derek.  Not really.  Sure, he’s hot, and Stiles has always been aware of that, but they’re not even friends.

Right?

They’re not friends.

“I don’t know, dude,” Isaac says as he dumps maggots into a blender.  “You’re kind of the only person in here besides Danny who Agent Hale has regular conversations with.”

Stiles pulls a face.  It’s been weeks since they actually worked together on a case, yet Derek still comes down to see Lydia or Isaac every once in a while and yeah.  Kind of.  They kind of talk.  “So?”

“So,” Danny pipes up from his desk, “Derek and I only have conversations because he’s about as technologically advanced as my grandfather.  You and Derek have conversations because he finds you easy to talk to.”  He looks over his computer.  “Anyone who Derek finds easy to talk to is his friend.  Like Erica and Boyd.”

“Okay, so sometimes we talk.  That doesn’t mean anything.”

“Keep telling yourself that.”

 

* * *

 

 

“We’re heading back to the lab right now,” Lydia sighs, and Stiles moves the phone to squish between his cheek and his shoulder so that he can wipe his hands off on a napkin as his donut disappears into his mouth.

He talks as he chews.  “Why do you sound frustrated?”

“Besides the fact that I have to listen to you talk at me with your mouth full?”  She heaves another sigh.  “There was a bomb.  Inside the body.”

Stiles pulls a face.  “Ew.”

“Not only are the remains and all evidence compromised, but everyone within a twenty-foot radius of the blast has become evidence.”

Stiles blinks.  “Don’t tell me.”

“Agents Hale, Reyes, and Boyd are heading back to the lab with me to be thoroughly examined and de-evidenced.”

“Oh, c’mon, Lydia!  Couldn’t I have just one—just one case this month that doesn’t involve them?!”

“Suck it up, Stilinski.  I would offer to let you pick the doll you’ll be de-funking, but I’ve already decided which one will suit you best.”  She blows quick kisses into the phone.  “See you in five, lover boy.”

Stiles only barely resists the urge to chuck his phone.

Okay, so he kind of maybe fell asleep at his desk one time and mumbled Derek’s name.  And since then, no one has let him live it down.  He can’t really blame them—he would do the same thing in their position—but he’s not happy about it.  Especially since the last time he and Derek talked outside of work stuff was months ago.

Erica is the first one through the door.

“I’m taking her!” Lydia says before anyone can jump up and offer.  “Agent Reyes, if you’d like to step into my office—”

Erica goes, fuming, most likely because she’s covered in blood and gunk and, oh, she’s going to need a very long shower.

Boyd is significantly less bloody than his partner, but he heads over to Isaac.  Stiles thinks they’ve kind of become friends lately, and Lydia directs them both into the back, where Scott normally works, so that there’s more privacy.

“Agent Hale.”  Lydia rolls out plastic and lays it over one of their evidence tables.  “Dr. Stilinski—have at it.  And remember, we need all the evidence.”  She smirks.  “So, Agent Hale, you can find sweatpants and an FBI T-shirt in the back of the lab when you’re ready.”

As soon as she’s disappeared, Stiles rolls his eyes and snaps on gloves.  Derek looks a little worse for wear.  There’s gunk in his hair, stuck in his suit, and oh, yes, that’s definitely something that was once connected to a vital organ.

Stiles sighs and grabs a few evidence jars.  “I guess we’ll start with the suit jacket.”

He picks out all the evidence he can—they’re mostly body parts to return to autopsy downstairs—and helps Derek out of the jacket, laying it over the plastic.

“Relax, would you?” Stiles mutters, scraping tissue off of the front of Derek’s shirt.  “You look like you’re about to blow a fuse.”  He chuckles and looks up to find Derek glaring.  “Not funny, huh?  Should’ve thought of that.”

Derek doesn’t say anything, but he does roll his shoulders and rest against the table a little more.

“There we go.  Progress.”  He clears his throat and sets down his tweezers.  “All right, off with the shirt.”

And just like that, Derek stiffens up again.  “What?”

“You heard her—all evidence.”  When Derek still doesn’t move, Stiles rolls his eyes.  “C’mon, dude, Lydia’ll have my ass.  Take it off.”

Derek grumbles something under his breath, but he does start unbuttoning the shirt.  And, without being asked, he whips off the undershirt underneath.

Stiles does not stare.  Not at all.  Not even the tiniest bit.

Maybe he flushes a little bit pink and stammers something he doesn’t even remember, but he doesn’t stare.  Definitely not.

And then he clears his throat and says, “Pants, too.”

Derek narrows his eyes.

If Stiles were still a college student, he would probably let Derek take off his own pants.  But now he’s a doctor, now he’s, like, legit, and so—so—shit.

“Don’t.”  He slaps Derek’s hands away as he reaches for his waistband.  “Uh—it’s—you can’t compromise the evidence.”

Derek arches an eyebrow.  “What?”

Stiles licks his lips.  “Goop,” he says stupidly.  “On your belt buckle.”

And sure enough, there is.  Derek even looks a little surprised.  But he just grits his teeth and spreads his hands.  “Fine.”

Stiles is not proud of the heat the crawls up his spine when he works on getting Derek’s belt off.  It’s not professional and it’s not—it’s really not normal.  There’s blood and body parts and it’s definitely, just, not a good situation.

When Derek’s pants are looser around his hips—those fucking hips, Stiles thinks—Stiles takes a step back.

“Right, okay, you—you do that and I’ll get—you pants.  New pants.  For you.”  So Stiles turns and stumbles his way into the back, rummaging around for the sweats and T-shirt Lydia had promised.  When he comes back into the front room, after giving himself a thorough mental tongue-lashing, Derek is standing with his hands together in front of his crotch, in nothing but black boxer briefs.

Stiles’ mouth goes a little dry.  He shoves the clothes at Derek without a word and walks around the table to start dealing with the evidence—but does not stare at Derek’s butt.  At all.  Definitely not.

Okay, maybe a little bit.

But in his defense, it is probably the nicest butt Stiles has ever seen.

He finishes up by plucking a molar from Derek’s hair and wiping the back of his neck to get rid of excess blood.

“Okay,” he says, exhaling, “you’re welcome to head for the chemical showers.  And I think Agents Boyd and Reyes will be there momentarily.”

Derek nods stiffly.  “Uh, thanks.”

Stiles waves.  “No problem.”

He decides then and there—he hates Lydia Martin.

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles starts going to the crime scenes.  That’s usually more of Lydia’s gig, sometimes Scott’s when there’s a gun involved, and Isaac always goes to make sure the appropriate number of samples are taken for his research, but Stiles…  Not so much.  He mostly just sits in the lab and waits for Lydia to bring him things.

That changes.

He doesn’t always work with Derek’s team—there are other people in the lab, people who Stiles isn’t as close to, and they switch off a lot, depending on the case—but it’s happened a few times.

One time, they’re on the third kill with the same pattern.  A body found by the beach, naked, showing signs of intercourse before death.  The fourth time, it isn’t a woman, but a man.  And he isn’t on the beach, but is in an alley near the sand, wrapped in a tarp.

“Breaking the pattern,” Derek huffs softly.

“Potential for a copycat,” Erica tells him.  “This has been in the news a lot.”

Derek shakes his head.  “It’s in threes.”

Stiles, who’s standing near the ME van with Lydia and Isaac, perks up.  “What’s in threes?”

Without looking up from the body, Derek tells him, “There’s a cold case.  Killed nine people.  Three of them were found in the restrooms of seedy bars, three of them were left in Dumpsters, and three of them were buried in the gardens of their childhood homes.  Each time, the killer switched up their relationship, the murder weapon, and the time frame, but left a slight connection.  This time, it’s the location.  It’s close, but not exact.  Like he’s playing a game.”

“How long ago?” Lydia asks.

“About a year—it wasn’t my case, but I remember it well.”  He pulls out his cell phone and dials, and a moment later, he says, “Hey.  Yeah, it’s me.  Is she in?”  He stretches out his other arm and beckons another man in a suit over.  “Great.  Yes, I’ll hold.”  He puts the phone to his chest and says to the man, “Agent Donovan’s case from last year.”

The man, who Stiles guesses is another agent, sighs, shaking his head.  “Well, you can have it if you want,” he offers.

“He worked with the San Diego Homicide Unit.  I know the detective who helped him out.”

The stranger nods.  “Alright.  Get him on board, you two are on it.”

Derek copies his short nod—it’s an FBI thing, Stiles thinks—and then goes back to the phone.  It’s only a moment before Derek looks up and meets his gaze.  This time, Stiles doesn’t look away.  Neither does Derek.

“Donovan’s case,” is all Derek says into the phone at first.  A moment later, he rattles off the address of the nearest building.  He doesn’t look away from Stiles.  “I’ll see you in ten.”

Lydia rushes Stiles into bagging evidence and scraping up sand particles, and as they’re bent over on the concrete, she hisses, “Will you please just bang him already?  The sexual tension is making me sick.”

Stiles almost topples over from the delicate balance he’s achieved.  “Lydia!”

“You and Agent Sexy—you’re killing me.”

“There is nothing—what are you even—Derek and I—”

“Oh, you call him Derek to his face now?”

It’s a relatively recent development.  Stiles hadn’t really called him anything until during a case a few weeks ago, Stiles had referred to him as Agent Hale, and the man had bit out a quick, “Call me Derek,” before turning back to the files in front of him.

“Shut up.”

Lydia arches an eyebrow.  “I’m just saying.  You should climb that like a tree.”

“Who says I want to?”

“We’re not as stupid as you seem to think we are.”  Lydia scrapes up a piece of chewing gum that looks relatively recent and places it in a little container, screwing on the lid and scrawling her signature on a line on the top.  “I’ll go take care of this.  You go ask him out.”

His jaw drops.  “We’re at a crime scene!  This is a very emotionally upsetting time, especially involving a cold case and a serial killer and—and—no.”

Lydia shrugs.  “Guess you’re gonna have to find another way back to the lab, then, because you’re not getting in the van unless you’ve made plans with him.”  She stands and pats his head.  “Later, Stilinski.”

He calls Scott.  But not until after he’s noticed that a woman in a stylish pantsuit with dark hair piled on top of her head—and a figure that would make any men paw at the ground like an animal, but how is that important?—approaches Derek and is…very comfortable with him.

So Stiles goes back to the lab in Scott’s car and begins analyzing evidence.

 

* * *

 

 

Two more bodies show up, in alleys near the beach, wrapped in tarps.  The last three, the women, were file clerks.  The new three, the men, are cops.

Laura Hale is the presiding SDPD Detective, the one who worked the case a year ago with the now-deceased Agent Donovan.  She’s easily one of Stiles’ favorite cops ever.

“My little brother is too protective,” she says as she lounges in Isaac’s desk chair, her feet up.  “But he knows when to let me do my job.  So—what do you have for me, sweet cheeks?”

She’s beautiful and funny and intelligent and she reminds Stiles of Lydia in more ways than one.  She takes all the information he gives her and absorbs it, nods, and heads for the exit.  She doesn’t ask questions.  Stiles doesn’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.

Then, two days later, the head of the SDPD crime lab goes missing.  His body turns up outside Stiles’ apartment building a day after that.

He may be momentarily sick, but there are big arms to catch him before he hits the cement.

“I’m fine,” he rasps, but he’s turning green.  He turns away from the body—the man’s name is Franklin Brinkley.  Stiles had gone to his wedding a few years ago.  And, somehow, that thought doesn’t help, because he’s hurling a moment later, arms still around him.

Derek gets him water and sits him in back of the ME van.  “Stay,” he says.

A little while later, Laura is next to him, bumping her shoulder against his.

“Hey.”

Stiles is silent.

“I can practically hear the gears working in your head.”

“He has a pattern,” Stiles whispers.  “On this spree, it’s people of similar professions.”

“We think it’s a dirty cop.”

“But we don’t know.”  He squeezes the water bottle in his hands.  “Three file clerks who worked for law enforcement.  Three cops.  And now a forensic scientist with the crime lab.”

“Are you scared?”

He shudders.

She nods.  “Yeah.  Yeah, I am too.”

Derek walks up a little while later and he has Lydia and Isaac in tow.  “We’re putting agents on you and everyone in the lab,” he says.  “One on your body, two in your place of residence.  You do not go anywhere without telling them, you do not try to get away from them, and you do not, under any circumstances—”

“I got it,” Stiles says, and he’s a little shaky still.  “Not going anywhere without my shadow.  Who do I get?”

Derek clears his throat.  “Although there’s no proof that he’s only going after the head of the lab, I’m on Dr. Martin, just in case.  You get Erica.  Dr. Lahey gets Boyd.  And we have other agents already heading towards the lab to divvy up responsibilities.”

Stiles nods.

“C’mon.  I’ll follow you guys back to the lab.”

 

* * *

 

 

Erica is quiet.  She sits there with her phone in her hands, feet up on Stiles’ desk, and doesn’t say a thing.  He works numbly.  There are a handful of other agents scattered about.  Derek is in Lydia’s office.  Boyd is in the back, sitting between Scott, Danny, and Isaac.  There are others, ones that Stiles doesn’t recognize, and when it’s time to go home, he just grabs his coat and peeks in to say goodnight to Lydia.

“Jackson might not be a fan of him,” Lydia says, fully aware that Derek can hear everything she’s saying, “but I guess we’ll just have to see, won’t we?”

Stiles smirks and kisses her cheek.  “G’night, Derek,” he says, lifting a hand.

Derek nods.  “Goodnight, Stiles.”

Erica follows Stiles home.  There’s another agent there when they arrive, a man who sits at Stiles’ kitchen counter and cleans his weapon.  Stiles isn’t really a fan.

It’s nearly midnight when there’s a knock on his door.  Instinctively, Stiles stands from his couch to get it, but Erica jumps in front of him, holding a finger to her lips.  She has her gun by her leg, the other agent approaching with his weapon in place, but when Erica looks through the peephole and opens the door, she sighs and rests her hand on her hip.  “Dr. Martin.”

Lydia pushes past her, and Derek is right behind her, grumbling.

“Safety in numbers and all,” is her greeting to Stiles.  She kicks off her shoes and takes off her jacket, kissing his stunned cheek.  “Sleepover!”  While she’s leaning in close, she grins at him.  “Also, you’re welcome.”

“For what?”

She smirks.  “You know what.”

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles makes coffee.  He and Lydia sit on his bed and talk.  The agents stay in the living room.

Eventually, Stiles falls asleep.

 

* * *

 

 

He wakes up to gunshots.  It’s dark and Lydia’s asleep next to him, a pillow over her head, and when he heads towards the other room (because he’s stupid and has a death wish), he’s answered with a bullet in his leg, shot right through the wood of the door.

He falls over, shouting, hands clenched, and Lydia stirs, sitting up.

Wordlessly, he points to the window.  Fire escape.

Her eyes widen and she shakes her head, but he jerks his arm.  “Go, it’s you they want!  Laura’s two floors down.  Go!”

It’s all very cinematic.  Sure, there’s fear and adrenaline pumping through him, and he can see how it’ll play out.  Lydia will escape, get down to Laura, and she’ll come in just in time.  But Stiles doesn’t know who’s out in the living room—he doesn’t know who’s still alive.  And instead of doing what she should do, Lydia does…something better.

She digs a gun out of her purse by the side of the bed, and the second the bedroom door opens, she fires.

Stiles is too busy being in pain—and being fucking stunned that Lydia not only carries around a gun, but is such a good shot—to care how the stranger drops, bleeding heavily.

“Stiles!” comes a shout from the main room.

Relief floods him.  Derek’s alive.  “We’re okay!” he shouts back.  “We’re both—Lydia shot—I—”  He trails off and winces in pain.  “Um, I kind of got shot but, uh, bad guy’s dead, Lydia’s uninjured.  How are things on your end?”

Lydia stomps out of the room, gun still in his hand, and calls back.  “Stiles, how expensive are your floors?”

Stiles sighs.

“Erica and Cole are unconscious, but otherwise okay,” Derek tells him, and then he appears in the doorway with a face that looks like it belongs in Fight Club and an arm that definitely needs attention.  “More agents approaching.  Let me see your leg.”

Stiles shakes his head.  It hurts.  “Don’t touch.”

Derek swallows tightly.  “C’mon, Stiles, we’re gonna get you to the hospital.”

They do.

 

* * *

 

 

Derek visits while Stiles is in the hospital—always with other people, never alone. He's quiet and calm and he doesn't say much, but his presence is reassuring for some reason. Stiles gets a warm feeling in his chest, knowing that Derek cares if he's okay.

So maybe he does like him. A little bit. Or a lot.

Derek watches him with these contemplative eyes, watches him like he's going to dissect him. He's trying to figure Stiles out.

The real crush kind of comes out of nowhere. One second, Derek is in the lab, bugging him about samples, they next, he's standing right next to Stiles, shoulders brushing, hips touching, pinkies separated by millimeters. And Stiles' heart surges up into his throat.

When Derek leaves the lab that afternoon, Stiles thinks he's going to explode.

"You two look cozy," Lydia notes, but before Stiles can hiss something at her or make a beautifully sarcastic comment, Scott puts on his heavy frown and asks, "Who?"

"Nobody," Stiles grumbles. "Lydia's overreacting."

"Stiles wants to get into Derek’s pants,” Lydia says like it’s obvious.  “I know you’re not as bright as I am Scott, but you should be noticing these things.”  She pats his cheek, grinning at him.

“Dude,” Scott breathes.  “Derek Hale?”

“It’s not a big deal, okay?  We just—I just—there’s nothing going on.”  Stiles turns back to his computer.  “Now go back to work.”

 

* * *

 

 

There’s a dude with a gun.  But he’s an idiot and it’s a crime scene, so there are law enforcement officers a plenty and there’s not really any danger, (Derek gets shot at and Stiles has a second of momentary panic but all’s well that ends well or whatever) but Stiles can’t help but feel that bad luck just keeps popping up.

He’s right.

There’s an incident involving a possibly toxic body and, just Stiles’ luck, he’s picking up evidence from autopsy just as they get locked in.  They, meaning the doc, Erica, and Derek.  And him.  Because that’s the way his life is now.

Then there’s evidence that’s been handled improperly and Stiles has to use the emergency chemical showers—along with the rest of the people in the lab.  Derek is one of them.

All of those happen within the span of a month.

By the end of the those thirty days, though, Stiles thinks his luck must be changing.

Because Derek kisses him.

Granted, it comes at a ridiculous inopportune moment, but it happens.  It happens when they’re exhausted and kind of dirty because they had to sift through evidence that involved lots and lots of stuff from trash bins and landfills, and it’s Stiles who finds the missing puzzle piece, who figures it all out, and Derek hauls him in and kisses him.

At first, Stiles has no idea how to respond.  But as soon as he realizes what’s happening, he drops the vial of contact solution that’s still caked in dirt—don’t ask—and lets his arms rest on Derek’s shoulders, kissing him back.

It’s fucking awesome.  Derek kisses him like he just can’t stop, like he’ll never stop, and Stiles takes and gives in equal succession, wishing he could shove his fingers through Derek’s hair. 

But when it ends, it ends abruptly.

Derek jerks away, hands still on Stiles’ waist, leaving handprints on his white lab coat, and then he takes a step back, eyes wide and terrified.  Stiles wants to say something, wants to tell him that it was okay, that it was more than okay, but he just can’t make his mouth work, and so Derek bolts before he gets the chance to force his vocal chords back under his control.

Isaac and Scott walk in a minute later, a donut box in Scott’s hand, a jelly-filled monstrosity in Isaac’s.  When all Stiles does is stare at them blankly, Scott holds out the box.  “Donut?”

Stiles scoffs.  “Donuts?!  Scott—priorities!”

And then he goes to his desk and starts planning.

 

* * *

 

 

Plans, as it turns out, don’t always work.

He’s settled in for a nice long night of solitude—it’s raining, he has beer in the fridge, and he just wants to do absolutely nothing for an evening—when the doorbell rings.

He grumbles.  “Fucking Scott, you should at least call before—Derek.”

Derek is standing on the other side of the threshold, drenched in rainwater.

“…hi.”

“We need to talk,” is all Derek says, and then he’s storming inside of Stiles’ apartment, brushing past him like he’s a part of the décor.

Stiles watches him as he steps inside, still dripping.  “Yes, please,” Stiles drawls sarcastically, “come into my home in your soaking clothes, uninvited I might add, and disrupt my lovely evening of horror movies and beer.”

Derek fixes him with a look.  “You hate horror movies.”

Stiles blinks.  “What?”

“You said—you said you couldn’t watch them anymore because of your job.  That they freaked you out too much.”

“I—what—how did you—that was a private conversation!”

“In the middle of the lab.”

“You were working with Danny, how did you even—oh.”  Stiles stands up a bit straighter.  “Oh.  You.  You like me.”

For a second, Stiles expects Derek to scowl and deny it, but all he does is stand there.  When Stiles doesn’t come up with anything else to say, Derek clears his throat, runs a hand through his still-dripping hair.  “Do you think maybe I could use your shower?”

Stiles nods after a moment.  “Yes.  Sure.  Yeah.”

He’s kind of numb as he waits, draining the rest of his bottle, standing by the couch and tapping his fingers over the back of it.  For as strange as he feels, he’s also vastly disappointed.

He had a plan.

Fucking Derek.

He’d like to blame the beer for what happens next, but then that would be giving too much of the credit away.  But he still wonders if a more sober brain would have been able to avoid the temptation to stomp into the bathroom and yank the curtain back—he doesn’t get to dwell on the question for long.

Derek is really fucking hot.  Stiles knows this.  Stiles remembers undressing him in the lab, remembers the fluttery feeling in his stomach, but this is, obviously, different.  Because Derek really does have a phenomenal ass and Stiles is in love.  Probably.  Most definitely.  Shit.

Derek blinks at him from under the spray, not making a move to cover himself, not telling Stiles to get out, but waiting, letting Stiles decide.  He keeps his eyes fixed on Stiles’ as Stiles undresses himself.  He stares as Stiles steps into the bathtub, watches as he moves forward.

“I had a plan,” Stiles says dumbly.  “I had a really fucking great plan.”

Derek nods slowly.  “I’m sure you did.”

“I was gonna romance the fuck out of you.  I was leave you silly shit on your desk and try to embarrass you when you came down to the lab, be all lovey dovey and crap like that—I was going to make you fall head over heels for me.”

“Stiles.”

“What?”

“You already have.”

And then they’re kissing.  And it’s better than the first time; Derek is touching him and Stiles gets to touch Derek and it’s just so much.  They kiss for a really long time, just stand under the steamy spray and kiss, and Stiles feels like he’s in college again, too nervous to make the first move and having too much fun with the simple stuff that he isn’t even sure he wants to move on.

“Relax,” Derek whispers.  “I can—just tell me what you want.”

“You.”  Stiles kisses him again.  “C’mon.”  He reaches around Derek and turns off the water, and by the time they make it to bed, they’re still a little damp, barely helped by the towels Derek had wrapped them in.

They neck like teenagers.  They lounge around and make out, run their hands all over each other, and just as Stiles is about to claim blue balls and grab for his own cock, Derek starts sliding down his body, licking and sucking and leaving hickies in his wake.

Stiles can hardly remember the last time he had a blowjob.  Derek’s mouth, though, completely wipes any and all memories of past events from his head, because it’s just so fucking awesome.  Stiles can’t do anything but force his hips to be still and tug on Derek’s hair for strength.

“Fuck—stop—stop that—get up here.”  He grabs at Derek’s shoulders desperately, but Derek doesn’t move.  Or rather, he does, but it’s only to take Stiles deeper into his mouth, into his throat.  Eventually, after a minute or two of babbling, Stiles just gives up.  Just collapses.  Just breathes and moans and lets his hips move in little circles and enjoys it, because if Derek wants this, then he supposes he can sacrifice enough to give it to him.

He has enough brain power to warn Derek before he’s about to come, but right as he opens his mouth, Derek pulls off.

Stiles lets out a litany of cuss words and Derek just grins at him, nuzzling his belly.

“Yeah, yeah,” Stiles mutters, “you’re adorable.  Big bad FBI agent turns into a kitten after blowjobs—and giving, no less.  Wow, that’s actually awesome.  Can I keep you?”

Derek kisses the skin around his bellybutton and nods.  “Please.” He surges up to kiss Stiles again, and at the same time reaches over to fumble around and get Stiles’ bedside drawer open.  “Lube?” he asks as he searches.

Stiles moans.  “Yeah—yeah, it’s in there.  And—condom.”

“Can I fuck you?”

He nods quickly, arching up against him.  “Please, please do.”

Derek kisses him when he slides the first finger in, kisses him deep and long and slow, kisses him until Stiles is shaking, babbling against his mouth with pleas for another.  So Derek pushes in another, and another, fucks him with those fingers watches his eyes slip closed, mouth fall open, head fall back.

Stiles can barely concentrate.  He knows that he digs his fingers into Derek’s shoulders, knows that eventually he reaches down starts jerking Derek off, knows that they touch and that they never stop kissing—his lips are definitely going to be chapped in the morning—but beyond all of that, the only thing Stiles can register is how good it all feels.  And how badly he needs to come.

He rolls the condom on Derek himself, hooks his knees around Derek’s waist, and when Derek is inside of him, Stiles takes back everything he ever said about stupidly attractive FBI agents.

Derek chuckles.  “Oh, yeah?” he asks.  “Like what?”

Stiles smirks to himself, not even sorry that he said it out loud.  “Like how you guys must suck in bed.”

“We’re only just getting started.”

“Yeah—still got time to prove me wrong.”

He does.  Derek is long and thick and Stiles would feel slightly inadequate (actually, when he thinks about it, they’re fairly similar in size) if he wasn’t so grateful.  Derek fucks him and holds him, licks over his nipples, rolls them between his fingers, sucks on his neck and licks over his collarbone.  He does everything Stiles could ever want, and leads Stiles’ hands and mouth to show him how he likes to be touched and kissed, too.

Stiles spends a lot of time scraping his nails down Derek’s back—he did it once when Derek pushed in and Derek had moaned so beautifully that he just can’t help himself—and sucking on Derek’s pulse point and kissing the sandpaper-like cheeks and jaw that make Derek look like a hunky badass with a personal vendetta against razor burn.

Stiles loves it.  And he’s fairly certain that Derek does too.

“I have to,” Derek pants into his mouth, rhythm crashing and thrusts going erratic.  “I have to come—come on, Stiles, come for me.”

Stiles does, without much effort he might add, and he feels like everything is exploding, bright and hot and wonderful, and when he comes down, Derek is twitching inside him, still holding himself up on his elbows and knees.

With a laugh, Stiles shoves Derek onto his back and goes about cleaning them up.

“They train you for this kind of stuff at the FBI?” Stiles teases.  “How to not land on your partner after they make you come your brains out?”

Derek’s eyes are closed, but he smiles.  “Stiles.”

“Hm?”

“Thank you.”

Stiles snorts.  “Any time, Agent Hale.”

Derek’s eyes open then, and he reaches forward to grab Stiles’ hand, twisting their fingers together.  “Hey.  I mean—thank you.  For everything.  I…  You know.”

And the thing is, Stiles does know.  Stiles knows because he can see the way Derek is looking at him.  He can feel it in the way Derek touches him, taste it on the puffiness of his lips, sense it in the aches of his thoroughly-loved body.

He feels…good.  And he knows Derek made him that way.

Stiles leans down to kiss him again.  “You’re welcome.”

 

* * *

 

 

There aren’t any official rules at the FBI about dating.  Agents date.  Analysts date computer techs, computer techs date forensic techs, it’s all a mess, and none of it really…matters.

Derek, apparently, is the only one who decides to make it a big deal.

Derek stayed the weekend, cooked them breakfast on Monday, and then licked into Stiles’ mouth as he asked if he could stay over that night, too.  But before Stiles can answer, they get the call.

“Fucking fuck,” Stiles hisses, pulling out his own cell phone as Derek reaches for his.  “Stilinski.”

“Hale.”

They do not commute to the crime scene together, not that Stiles thought they would, but it is a little surprising that, when they arrive, Derek doesn’t even glance at him.  He settles straight into his work and Stiles wanders off to find Lydia and pull on his gloves.

“Good morning,” Stiles greets her.  She’s sitting in the back of the van, trading her high heels for boots.  She has a pink donut box by her side.  “Oh, donuts.”

She slaps his hand away when he reaches for one.  “Not yours.  They’re for the ME.”

Stiles arches an eyebrow.  “Seducing him?  You know, Lydia, I’ve seen your bad taste in men but I gotta say, he’s like 90 and I’m pretty sure he’s married.”

“Shut up,” she sighs, rolling her eyes.  “You know we always get those interns right around this time of year and I’m hoping I can bribe him enough that out of the five interns our department gets, he’ll take at least three of them, if not more.”

Stiles frowns.  “I like interns.”

“It’s been a really weird year, Stiles.”  Lydia finishes lacing up her boots and double checks her gloves.  “I don’t know, but I just feel like we can’t take any chances.”

Stiles shrugs to himself as she walks off to check out the body, and he’s about to follow her when he realizes—

“Scott, what the hell are you doing in the ME van?”

He’s sitting up front, leaning over a cell phone.  He looks slightly horrified, and he doesn’t appear to have heard Stiles.

“Dude?”

He thumps his hand against the side of the van and Scott perks up, turning around.  “Oh.  Oh, Stiles, hi!  I—wow, hi.”

Stiles arches an eyebrow.  “Is everything okay?”

“Oh, yeah, sure, everything’s just totally peachy, absolutely.”

“…Scott, what are you—”  But before Stiles can finish the question, a voice calls, “Dr. Stilinski!” and Stiles sighs, turning towards Erica.  “Howdy, Agent Reyes,” he drawls pleasantly, smiling at her.  “How are you this fine Monday morning?”

She’s smirking.  “Oh, you know me.  Sunshine and rainbows.  Dr. Martin requests your assistance.”

So Stiles casts one last look back at Scott—who looks like he did in fourth grade when he accidentally fed his hamster rat poison—and marches over to Lydia, and if he gives Derek an appreciative look upon his arrival, it’s not really a problem, right?  Right?

“—what looks like remnants of a—Stiles, are you paying attention?”

Stiles nods, looking away from Derek and helping Lydia bag evidence. “Of course.”

Lydia smirks at him.  “Is there something you’d like to share with the class, Stiles?” she coos.  Erica and Boyd are already walking back towards the van, but Derek is still standing on the other side of the body.

Derek clears his throat.  “Dr. Martin, the particles are yours, but do make sure the ME gets everything he needs as well.”

“Aye, aye, Captain.”  She even gives him a little salute, and he walks away without even glancing at Stiles.

Ouch.

“What’s up with Grumpy Face?” Lydia asks him.  “I thought he was starting to get better.”

“Yeah.  So did I.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Intern with Danny,” Isaac says under his breath when Stiles, Lydia, and Scott walk back into the lab.”

Lydia perks up.  “Just one?”

“Yeah.  We only got three this year and Dr. Dead People said he’d take two.”  Isaac gestures to the back where the intern in leaning against Danny’s desk, holding a camera they use to snap pictures of evidence.  “Matt Phillips.  Good transcript.  Knows his chemicals and shit.  Stick him with Stiles, no one gets hurt.”

It’s routine.  Since Stiles doesn’t mind them all that much and they do his busy work for him, he’s usually the one who has to baby them.  He shrugs.  “Sure,” he tells Lydia, “I’ll take him.”

He goes through quick introductions and settles the kid in front of the computer to upload the newest pictures from the crime scene that morning.  Then, he marches upstairs to have words.

“Good morning, Dr. Stilinski,” Boyd greets him when he gets to the squad room.  Derek’s the only other person there—Erica must be running an errand—and he only barely looks up.  “Don’t tell me you have news already?”

Stiles simply crosses his arms over his chest and looks at Derek.

“Go check on Erica,” Derek grumbles to Boyd.  “Make sure she hasn’t killed the intern.”

Boyd hesitates a moment, but when Derek fixes him with a look, he nods and leaves.

“What the fuck, Derek.”

Derek blinks up at him.  “What?”

“Don’t pretend like you don’t know—you’ve been ignoring me all morning.”

Derek’s eyebrows shoot up.  “Stiles.  We’re at work.”

“And your point?”

“My point!”  Derek looks left and right, but no one wandering around seems to be paying any attention to them.  “We’re supposed to be—professionals.  And I can’t be…”  He gestures aimlessly, and drops his hands to his desk.  “We can’t interact inappropriately whilst at work.”

Stiles feels like throwing something.  “Wow.  Wow, you must be shitting me.”

“Stiles—”

“No one is going to be able to tell that we’re together simply because you look at me or say a single word to me.”  He leans over Derek’s desk, palms flat.  “You were nicer to me when we weren’t together so I’m thinking there’s a little something more at play here than an attempt to do your job.”  He tilts his head, narrowing his eyes.  “Talk.”

Derek blinks.  “You’re right.”

“I know.”

With a sigh, Derek stands, grabbing Stiles’ wrist and yanking him towards the elevators.  As soon as they’re inside, Derek flips the emergency stop switch and the movement halts, the elevator lights dimming.

“Little over dramatic,” Stiles mumbles.

“I panicked,” Derek tells him.

“Doesn’t give you the right to ignore me.”

“I know.  I—I’m sorry.  Stiles.”  He grabs Stiles’ shoulders, waits until Stiles is looking at him evenly and then moves his hands to Stiles’ neck, leaning in closer.  “We can’t—not at work.”

Stiles smirks.  “Why do I get the feeling this is more about enjoyment derived from sneaking around than it is about professionalism?”

“I’m not saying you can’t tell your friends.  Tell anyone you want, but we need to save this for…”  He licks his lips, leans in closer.  “Just us.  Okay?”

“Okay, okay.”  Stiles closes the thin gap between them, kissing him slowly.  “Fuck, you’re awesome.  Ung, do you have to go back to work?  Wanna go down to Autopsy and fool around in the walk-in freezer?”

Derek chuckles, kissing him one last time.  “Go back to the lab.  Do your job.”

“Fine, but I’m living off the promise that I’ll see you tonight.”

“Tonight.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Allison’s pregnant.”

Stiles looks up from his microscope and blinks at Scott, who’s standing in front of him looking like a poodle who really needs to pee.  When the weight of the statement settles into Stiles’ brain, he glances behind him to make sure the intern is still working with his headphones plugged in.

“Dude,” Scott hisses, setting forward.  His voice drops.  “Allison’s _pregnant_.”

Stiles licks his lips.  “Yeah, man, I heard you.  I—I don’t know what to say.  Don’t you use condoms?”

“We—I—last month—” He’s obviously flustered and he scrapes a hand through his hair, dropping onto the seat next to the counter.  “Yes.  We use condoms.  We just got…carried away.”

“She’s an adult,” Stiles reminds him.  “It’s not like you’re 16.  She’s financially and emotionally capable of—”

“But I’m not!”

“Well it’s not about you, is it.”  He doesn’t say it like a question.  It’s not one.  He reaches forward and grabs his best friend’s shoulder.  “Your girlfriend is pregnant.  She decides what to do, not you.  If she wants to keep it, then you support her.  If she doesn’t want to keep it, then you support her with that too.”

Scott looks shell shocked.  “Holy shit.”

“What?”

“You got laid.”

Stiles rolls his eyes.  “Fuck you.”

“No—dude, I’m serious—you are never this…”

“What?”

“Calm!”  Scott groans, flopping his head down next to the microscope.  “I’m never going to have sex again.”

Stiles shrugs.  “Well, if you do, make sure you use a love glove.  Don’t be silly, cover your willy.”

“I would say you’re no help at all except that it wouldn’t be true.”  Scott stands, patting Stiles’ back.  “Thanks, man.”

“Anytime, bro.”

 

* * *

 

 

Things fall apart shortly after that.  But, as there is so often, there’s a calm before the storm that numbs them all into a sense of security.

There are cases and they catch murderers.  They go through four court cases in a month and a half and Stiles testifies at all of them.  He works, he eats, he goes home.  Sometimes Derek’s there, sometimes he’s not.

Stiles falls in love with him.  Hard.  The silly crush that made him feel all warm and gooey inside develops, and when Stiles falls asleep without Derek next to him, he feels empty inside.

“Let’s go away this weekend,” Stiles whispers to Derek.  They’re standing in the lab, looking at a computer screen, and everyone’s off doing their own jobs.  Phillips is sitting in his corner copying paperwork, headphones in his ears.  “C’mon, you need time off, too.”

“I’m not scheduled to be working this weekend.”

“Perfect.”  Stiles bumps his shoulder against Derek’s.  “Want to drive up to LA?  Stay in an expensive hotel, order room service, spend all weekend in bed?”

“Sounds too good to be true.”  Derek smiles at him, looking over his shoulder at the intern.  When he’s comfortable with their privacy, he leans in for a short kiss, brushing his hand across the small of Stiles’ back.  “I’ll see you tonight.”

“Sure.”

Stiles works late, as usual.  He sits in the lab, works until he can’t see the screen properly anymore, and then glances over his shoulder to see that Matt is still there.

“Doing okay, kid?” he asks.

But he can kind of tell that there’s a problem.  Matt is shaking, or at least his hands are.

Before Stiles can ask him again, there’s a knock at the door of the lab.  Allison is standing in the doorway, dressed in her usual pantsuit, a coat folded over her arm.  She smiles at Stiles.

“Hey,” he greets her.  “Scott’s in the back.  Matt can show you.”  He stands, picking up the boxed gun that they’re still trying to prove was the murder weapon in the most recent horrifying homicide.  He hands the box to Matt, jerking his head towards Scott’s station.  “Take this back to him, will you?”

Matt doesn’t speak.  Allison follows him towards the back, waving at Stiles.

It isn’t until Derek comes bursting in that Stiles realizes something’s wrong.

“Stiles!” he shouts.  He yanks Stiles up out of his chair, holding onto his shoulders.  “Are you okay?”

Stiles pulls a face.  “Um.  Yes?  I—what?  What are you doing down here?”

Derek frowns.  “I got your text.”

“…I didn’t send you a text.”  Stiles makes to grab for his phone to prove it—only his pocket is empty.

“Stiles.”  Derek scrolls to the page on his phone, showing him where his number pops up, with only a three-letter message underneath.  S. O. S.

“I didn’t—I didn’t send that.  I promise.”

“So then…”  Derek stands up straight.  “So then who did?”

“That,” comes a voice from the door, behind Derek now, having moved around him while he was distracted, “would be me.”  Matt is standing there, still in his lab coat, holding the gun that Stiles had given him moments before, along with the cartridge.  The door is closed.  Matt reaches down and locks it.  “Hey, Agent Hale.  Nice to see you again.”

Stiles wants to close his eyes.  Wants to pinch himself.  He’s had way too many creeps ruining his life lately, and he definitely doesn’t need another one.  But apparently he doesn’t get a choice.

“Do I know you?” Derek asks coldly.

“I’m hurt,” Matt says, a sick smile coming to his face.  “Your memory needs a little work.”

Stiles glances over to his left where Scott, Allison, and Lydia have congregated, the only ones left in the lab.  Scott and Allison are handcuffed together, no doubt by Matt.

Matt holds out a hand.  “Your weapon, please, Agent Hale.  And no one gets hurt.”  Derek lifts his hands slowly, reaching for it, but apparently Matt decides against this course of action at the last minute.  “Wait,” he says.  “You.”  He points the gun at Lydia, his eyes never leaving Derek’s.  “Get the gun from him.  And don’t be stupid.”

Lydia doesn’t look scared.  If anything, she looks pissed, but she does as she’s told, and Matt unloads the gun, tossing it towards the back, crashing into the door that leads towards Danny and Isaac’s space.

“There we go,” Matt says.  “Now you two.”  He points to Allison and Scott.  “Push the table up against the door.”  It’s the table with Stiles’ mass spectrometer on it.  Stiles feels like he’s offering a child up for slaughter, but it’s heavy enough that it’ll be frustrating to anyone who might want to enter the room.

Then again, it’s nearly eleven o’clock at night.  It’s unlikely they’ll have visitors.

“And last but hardly least,” Matt drawls when Scott and Allison walk back and hover behind Stiles’ station.  He shoots at the security camera hooked over the door.  It doesn’t make a noise as it dies.  “Wonderful—shall we get started?”

He takes their wallets and their phones, shuts them off and places them on the evidence table.  Stiles and Derek are standing on one side of the station that holds all of Stiles’ equipment and computers; Allison, Scott, and Lydia are on the other.

Stiles is waiting, his breath uneven, for something to happen—anything.  Because usually this would be the time in which Derek did something majorly badass and saved all of their lives.  But Derek isn’t moving.

“I know you,” Derek says softly.

Matt smirks at him.  “Yeah, Agent Hale.  I know.”

“ _How_?”

Matt shrugs.  “Guess you’ll have to figure it out.”

“If I’m the target, why are you keeping all of them in here?” Derek asks.  His hands are stuffed in his trouser pockets.  He looks relaxed.  “You waited until I was down here to lock us in.  I’m obviously important somehow.”

“Don’t get cocky.”

Derek shrugs.  “Just trying to work it out in my head.”

“Don’t move.”  He steadies the gun, aiming straight at Derek.  “Nobody move.”

“We’re not moving.”  Derek looks towards Stiles.  “Are you moving, Dr. Stilinski?”

Stiles sucks in a breath.  “Not to my knowledge, Agent Hale, but I didn’t take my Adderall this morning, so.”

“Shut up,” Matt hisses.  “Just—shut up.”

Stiles notices a flinch from the other side of the station.

There’s a gunshot.  Stiles flinches on instinct, preparing himself for pain, but he feels nothing, and all he hears is a scream.  From Allison.

Lydia is on her in an instant, wadding up her lab coat and pressing it to the injury on her inner thigh.

“Everyone shut up!” Matt screams.  “Get back!”

“We need to stop the bleeding,” Lydia tells him, not even looking at him.  Scott is sitting on the floor with Allison, behind her, holding her, and she’s tearing up, hand over Lydia’s as blood soaks into the lab coat.  “We need to keep pressure on it.  Scott, hold it.”

He does, and his hands over Allison’s tremble.

Stiles looks at Derek, looking for a sign that he’s still calm, that he’s still not worried, but whatever mask Derek had been wearing a moment earlier is gone.  He’s scared now, too.  Scared for them.

“Get up,” Matt growls at Lydia, yanking on her arm and pulling her away from them.

Stiles feels sick.

“I told you I’d shoot—shut up and don’t move.”

He’s visibly upset, Stiles can tell, and he has his eyes on Derek almost all the time.  He’s the biggest threat, even if he has given up his weapon.

Stiles moves before his brain really decides to, needing to be closer to Derek, and he pays for it.  He staggers backwards when the bullet hits his shoulder, and he knows he cries out in pain, but he doesn’t fall, mostly because Derek rushes to hold onto him.

“Fuck,” Stiles hisses.  “Shot twice in one year—fuck my life.”

“I said don’t move!” Matt screams.  “How hard is that for you people to understand?”

“It’d be easier if you weren’t threatening the people we love,” Lydia spits at him.  “This is why I fucking hate interns.”

“What’s your problem, dude?” Stiles asks as Derek eases him down onto the floor, holding his suit jacket over the wound in his shoulder.  “Got a beef with forensic techs and annoyingly attractive FBI agents?”

He’s shaking and sweating and obviously upset, but what comes out of his mouth is the most surprising thing, beyond the fact that he obviously had no real plan.  “My real name isn’t Phillips—it’s Daehler.”  His eyes bore into Stiles’.  “That give you any clue?”

Stiles blinks, leans back against Derek and tries not to cry because everything really freaking hurts. “Uh.  No?”

“He was convicted of manslaughter,” Derek says.  “Four years ago, my testimony…”  He hesitates.  “He let two of his high school friends drown and was convicted of stalking and threatening one of their sisters after the incident.  She wound up dead, evidence of rape was found.  He was the number one suspect.  He was acquitted of the murder charge but the stalking charge went on his record, along with physical harassment.  He served nine months.”

“You ruined my life!” he shouts, still waving the gun.  “Don’t you understand?”

“You’re a scumbag,” Allison says from the other side of the room, looking pale and sickly.  “Should’ve been locked up.”

“I’m the victim!  _Me_!  I’m the one—they tried to drown _me_!”  He scowls darkly.  “And that bitch made up lies about me.  She swore up and down that it was my fault even though she saw the whole thing happen.”

“Taking your anger out on innocent people,” Derek spits.  “You’re really not setting yourself up for a successful future, Matt.”

“Don’t try to relate to me.  I see it—I’ve seen how this works.  You say my name and you try to talk to me.”  He raises the gun again, pointing straight at—Stiles.  “If you say my name again, I’ll put a bullet in his other shoulder.  But who knows?  Maybe I’m a lousy shot.  I could accidentally hit his heart.”

Stiles closes his eyes tight, holding onto Derek’s arm.  He feels numb.  And cold.

Allison moans out in pain and when Stiles opens his eyes, he can see her leaning her forehead into Scott’s neck.

“She’s pregnant,” Stiles says immediately.  “The rest of us—we’ll all stay, we’ll do whatever you want, but you have to let her go.  She’s pregnant.”

“Stiles,” Scott starts.

“No one’s leaving,” Matt hisses.  “Not until Derek Hale’s dead.”

“Lacking a bit of finesse, that plan,” Stiles says through his teeth.  He’s trembling.  He feels really, really tired.  “Could’ve just slipped something in his food.  Shot him as soon as you walked in.  Why’d you have to wait?  Why are you waiting now?”

“Because it’s more than that.”  Matt steps closer, pressing the barrel of the gun against Stiles’ cheek.  “Because he didn’t just take away my life, he took away the people I loved.  My family, my only friends.  They all shunned me after that trial.  Nobody cared.  And I wonder what Derek Hale would do if he knew that there was no one left in the world for him to love.”

Stiles shudders.  “Killing him won’t make him feel that way.”

“Stiles,” Derek says lowly.

“I doubt killing any of us would, either,” Stiles continues.  “We’re lab rats.  Derek doesn’t give two shits about us.”

“I’m not as dumb as I look, Dr. Stilinski.”  Matt starts pacing then, walking around the evidence table and pulling it backwards on its wheels, moving it towards the rest of the barricade at the door.  “I’m observant.  I hear things.  I see things.  I know whatever you two are doing, it isn’t exactly kosher.  But, hey, you guys make a cute couple.”  He’s stepped closer then, but at a new angle.  This time, he’s not also facing the corner where the others are huddled.  This time, his back is to them.

Stiles licks his lips.  He knows his heart rate is increasing and he knows what that means—blood pumping faster, he loses blood faster.  Allison is already in a sorry state.

“Let me get bandages,” Lydia asks, already standing up.  “Please—she’s losing blood.  They both are.”

“No,” Matt grinds out.  “Nobody move.  God, how many times—”  And then Lydia smacks him over the back of his head with her wedge-heeled shoe, and he drops, crumpling on the floor like a ragdoll.

She doesn’t glance at him, just rushes towards the back, grabs bandages and gauze and towels, and meanwhile she’s barking orders, Stiles thinks, but he can’t really tell, because he’s so tired that he’s decided to just take a nap against Derek’s shoulder.

It’s very comfy.

“Don’t fall asleep,” Derek says, running his hand through Stiles’ hair.  “Hey.  Don’t fall asleep.”

Stiles nuzzles into him.  “Derek.”

“Stiles, c’mon, you have to stay awake, dammit, Stiles—”

And then everything fades to black.

 

* * *

 

 

Everything’s fuzzy for a while.  It’s thick and hazy and Stiles isn’t aware of a lot.

The first time he wakes up, he hears shouting and rushing and Derek’s voice, distantly.  But everything hurts, so he decides to go back to sleep, where it doesn’t.

The second time, his mouth is dry and his eyelids are too heavy to open.  So he doesn’t try.  He just breathes deeply through the fog in his head and goes back to sleep.  When he wakes up again, he can hear someone else in the room.  He doesn’t open his eyes and he’s back asleep in an instant.

Fourth, fifth, sixth times he wakes up, he hears voices.  Lydia, Scott, Isaac.  One time, he hears Erica.

He goes back to sleep.

When he finally comes to—at a point when he feels like he might as well be dead—the hospital is dark.  He’s in a simple private room, which is strange, and through the glass window in the door, he can see that the lights are low.

It’s the night shift.

He wants to rub at his eyes, wipe away the sleep and the frustration, but his arms feel heavy.

“Morphine.”  Stiles blinks up at the nurse who walks in the door, her face set in a kind smile.  “We’ve been pumping it into you for a while, it’s going to take a bit for you to feel like yourself again.”  She looks down at the chart and back up at him.  “Hello, Dr. Stilinski.  Welcome back to the land of the conscious.”

He cracks a smile.  “How long have I been sleeping?  Do I have a new record?  One time, in college, I slept for nearly twenty hours straight.”

She nods, dropping the clipboard in a holder at the end of his bed.  “Three days.  You were touch and go for a while, I’m sorry to say, but your surgery went fine and we’ve just been waiting for your body to feel like helping us out a little bit.”  She clicks her nails against the foot of his bed.  “Visiting hours are long over,” she explains, “but your friends have been here all the time and it’s different for law enforcement personnel.  They all are, uh, interesting.’

“Yeah, that’s one word.  My friends definitely have _interesting_ attitudes.”

“Since it’s almost daybreak, I wouldn’t be surprised if one of them returned soon.”  She checks her pretty silver watch.  “The tall, gruff one with the sad eyes—he comes in every morning, leaves 18 hours later.  He’s here more than I am.”

Stiles’ pulse races just a little bit and her eyes flash to the monitor.

She smirks.  “He’s handsome.”

Stiles smiles again.  “Yeah.  Yeah, he is.”

There are ice chips for him to suck on and someone (probably Lydia), left a pile of three books on the little nightstand.  There’s also a folded piece of paper with his name written on it.

When Stiles looks up, the nurse is gone.

 

Stiles—

If you wake up when none of us are here (and you so would, because that’s just how you work), there are probably some things you’re wondering.

I won’t go into detail about the surgery, since I’m sure you don’t care that much, but the good news is you’re alive and your arm will be fine.  The doctor thinks physical therapy might be necessary because of damage to the nerve and the socket joint, but I highly doubt it.  I’ve seen your x-rays.

Allison miscarried.  She and Scott are fine otherwise, if a little upset, and Derek’s okay, too.  He’s pissed, and he’s by your side more than any of us, but he’s fine.

Derek called your father.  He flew down to see you and he’s staying in your apartment since the hospital won’t let him stay, but he’s around with Derek.  Between you and me, I think he knows that you and Derek are more than coworkers.

You have been unbelievably brave, Stiles.  Thank you.

We’ll see you when you wake up.

—Lydia

 

He breathes a little easier when he’s done reading the letter.  He’s not happy that his dad flew all the way down, but he’s relieved that Derek’s been around.  He feels sick when he thinks about Allison and Scott.  Nothing is ever going to make that go away.

He hears the footsteps before he actually sees the person, but he smiles when he does.

“I hear that someone’s been upsetting the other half of the Hale family for about, oh, three days.”  Laura closes the door behind her, a cup of coffee in one hand, the other curled around the strap of her purse.  “How long have you been awake?”

“Twenty minutes.”  He licks his lips.  “Is Derek…?”

Laura smirks.  “He’s on his way.  I told him I’d drop in before I headed to work.  You okay?”

“Yeah, you know.”  He refrains from shrugging.  The morphine’s wearing off and his shoulder hurts.  “Breathing, so that’s a plus.”

“Here.”  Laura steps around the bed, grabbing a little button on a wire.  “Press this.  Gives you morphine.”  She presses it into his hand just in time for the door to swing open.

Derek is dressed in jeans and a T-shirt and a jacket, obviously not going to work, and he’s holding a coffee cup that’s identical to Laura’s.  He stands frozen when he sees that Stiles is sitting up.

“That’s my cue!” Laura announces, leaning in and kissing Stiles’ forehead.  “Stay classy, Stilinski.”  She grins, leaving him with a wink, and brushes past her brother on the way out.  “Derek.”

“Laura.”

“Mom would have liked him.”

Stiles can see how Derek swallows tightly, his Adam’s apple bobbing.  But he nods.  “Yeah,” he says, “I think so.”

When she’s gone, Stiles struggles up into a more even sitting position, watching as Derek moves to stand by the side of the bed.

“You’re not allowed to do that to me,” Derek says.  “Ever.”

Stiles arches an eyebrow.  “Hey, Derek, nice to see you too.  How’s your weekend been?  I’m guessing it’s a far cry from a lavish suite in LA, yeah?”

Derek sets his coffee cup down after a moment of hesitation, and then he pulls the lone chair in the room closer to the bed, sitting with one arm leaning on the uncomfortable mattress.  “When I was fifteen, my sister and I and my younger brother Jake were all at school when someone snuck into our house and murdered our parents and our younger sister.  Jake went on a bender after that, ended up in rehab over and over and over again.  Killed himself six years ago.  My uncle Peter wasn’t in the house; he was the only extended family we had left.  Until he died right after Jake.”

Stiles closes his eyes.  “Derek—”

“I love you, Stiles.  I’ve been in love with you for months—maybe longer—and I’ll be damned if I lose you too.  Do you understand?”  He grabs Stiles’ hand, twisting their fingers together.  “Do you understand?” he repeats.

“Yes.”

“Good.”  He stands and shoves at Stiles’ side.  “C’mon, move over.  I’ve slept like four hours collectively over the last few days.”

Stiles laughs as he scoots over.  He makes to roll onto his side but Derek stops him.  When Derek settles, his back is to Stiles.

“Oh.”

Derek grumbles something incoherent.  “Shut up, Stilinski.”

“Derek Hale likes to be the little spoon,” Stiles says to himself as he winds an arm around Derek’s waist and nuzzles the back of his neck.  “Noted.”

“Also this way you don’t have to put pressure on your injured arm.”

Stiles shrugs.  “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

“Stiles.”

“Hm?”

“Laura was right.  My mom really would’ve liked you.”

Stiles blinks, absorbing that.  It seems that that’s the only thing Derek is going to say, so he just settles in, pressing his nose to the back of Derek’s neck.  “Derek.”

“Hm?”

“I love you too.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Good morning, Dr. Stilinski,” Erica coos as she walks into the lab, sipping from a cup of coffee.  She leans up against the evidence table, picking through the evidence bags. “Anything new?”

“Since you checked with me last night?”  Stiles smirks.  “Sorry, but no.”

“How’s your arm?”

“Much better, thanks for asking.  Just trying to let it hang.  Doctor’s orders.”  He pushes off from the computer he’s working at and his wheelie chair takes him to the table where Erica is standing.  “Anything I can help you with this morning?”

“Boss man’s not in yet,” Erica says, and she’s smiling slightly.  “I was just wondering if you’d seen him?”

Stiles arches an eyebrow.  “Sorry, can’t say I have.”

“Uh huh.  Well, if you do, let me know.”  She waves goodbye as he walks back towards the elevators.  As soon as she’s gone, Derek comes stomping out of the back, a pink donut box in his hand.

“Here,” he says, and drops it on Stiles’ desk.  “Found Danny hiding it.”

Stiles grins, reaching for it.  “My knight in shining armor.”

 “I live to serve,” Derek drawls.  He kisses Stiles slowly, smiling against his mouth.  When he straightens up, he heads towards the door, walking backwards.  “Lunch?”

“See you then.”

And Stiles leans back, watching Derek walk away.

He loves his job.

 


End file.
